Sometime after 11:30 a.m. PDT today, my wife spotted black, billowing smoke rising in the near distance; I suspected perhaps along El Cajon Blvd or among the houses between cross-streets Florida and Mississippi. A fire truck turning that way on Florida seemed to confirm my suspicion. But I was mistaken.

Smoke had dissipated by the time I crossed the Boulevard on foot in pursuit. As I approached Polk, smokey smell tickled my nostrils—yuck, from up the very steep hill to Georgia. After confirming with a bicyclist walking down the incline that the fire really was above, I grudgingly trudged away. Sure enough, with burning legs the cost, I had come to the right street.